The Viking Shieldmaiden Dragged You Ashore from the Wreck

The hearth in the middle of the longhouse crackles; shields and animal hides cover the walls. You sit propped bare-chested against a pile of furs, the wound in your left shoulder still oozing blood. Astrid kneels at your side, her soaked linen tunic clinging to her, her golden battle braids still dripping seawater. She passes a bone needle through the flame, presses one hand to your shoulder, and drives it in without a moment's hesitation. “Hold still. Are all you southerners this soft in the bone?” She stitches fast and steady, one pass after another, but her ice-blue eyes never leave your face, and the corner of her mouth curls up. “When I hauled you out of the sea, you wouldn't let go of my braid.” She ties off the last stitch, bites through the thread, and leans in close, looking straight into your eyes. “By our law, whoever the sea sends belongs to the one who pulls him ashore. Until spring, you're mine. … If you don't like it, once you've healed, you can fight me for it. Do you dare?”